


Untitled

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Come play, Fresh Sea Air Rots Your Brain, M/M, Men Being Stubbornly Daft, Midnight Texts, Post-Coital Cuddling, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4985704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg looked at the glowering man above him.  It was unbelievable.  How either of those two hadn’t yet realised what everyone else could see was beyond Greg.  They would have to be the most emotionally stunted, self-denying, stubborn asses that Greg had ever come across.  </p><p> </p><p>Or, what happens when someone finally points out to Sherlock & John exactly how they feel about each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all. This is just a quick piece of fluff (and maybe some shameless smut) to make up for all the angst and tears I caused from [Goodnight Friend. For Together, We Can Rest Now.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4958170)  
> I have gone in the complete opposite direction and instead of leaving you feeling like your heart has been ripped out through your optical cavities it should, hopefully, leave you feeling like it has been dressed in an oatmeal wooly jumper and wrapped in a soft blue scarf for extra warmth, or a man-kini, either way, it will leave you with a good feeling.  
> The point is, no one dies but there is hugs, that may possibly be of the naked nature. (Oh, who am I kidding. They are most definitely of the naked nature!)  
> So, please take my apology, which I have presented to you, along with a side of Jaffa Cakes and Banana flavoured milk, in 10 000+ words of abused italics, hard truths told, sulks had, realisations made and unabashed bawdiness.
> 
> NTW
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
> Holy crabby patties, guys, the response to this fic has been Ah-Maaaazing!!! It is, by far, the most fastest moved piece I have written to date. Over a thousand hits in under eighteen hours! And to think I only wrote it because my last one made people sad and I don't like sad.  
> Your comments and kudos and all the such have been a most fabulously welcome response and I'd just like to say that I love you all.  
> Free hugs to everyone and don't stop being wonderful!!

Sherlock grumbled as he thrust his phone back into his pocket one more time, after reading _that_ text message, one more time.

‘ _Cornwall_. What the hell has _Cornwall_ got that isn’t here in London?’ Sherlock’s inner monologue sneered the word _Cornwall_ as if it had afforded him some deep, heinous, personal grievance

‘And who the hell is _Jasmine_? Wasn’t he going out with Maria?’ If the word _Cornwall_ was sneered with sheer loathing than the word _Jasmine_ was spat into his mind with such hatred, that were it spoken vocally the sheer acidity would surely have peeled the skin off of any poor bastard who happened to be within hearing distance.

Before the taxi had even pulled up to a full stop next to the kerb Sherlock had thrown a handful of bills at the driver and opened the door, one foot hitting the pavement as the car came to a panicked, premature halt, half a meter from where it had intended to stop, followed by a clearly frustrated ‘ _OI_ ” which Sherlock deleted before the single syllable had drawn to an end as he stalked, part frustrated, part furious, to the doors that would lead him into New Scotland Yard.

Ignoring proper procedures for those who were not officially employed here, and bypassing all security procedures that were put in place to prevent outsiders from wandering in, with a practiced ease built over years of perfecting, Sherlock made his way up to the third floor, turned left out of the elevators and continued his stalking until he hit the cluster of offices at the end of the artificially lit corridor. Once through another set of doors he walked past the individual cubicles, ignoring the looks of either fear of disdain, and the one or two of absolute awe (they were new, it would wear off) only to be stopped by Donovan.

“You go through the proper procedures to be here, freak?” She asked snidely, as if she knew something he didn’t.

Sherlocks inner self snorted out a short laugh. The list of things that Donovan would know, which he didn’t, would be minimal and of no importance, such as whether Anderson’s bedroom carpet, or kitchen linoleum was more comfortable on the knees, how to apply liquid eye liner and how to chug back a litre of beer without falling off her stool, within the shortest amount of time possible.

Sherlock would truly love to add, ‘ _How high pitched Anderson's voice can get while he is being sucked off in the disabled toilets on the basement floor of the building they were currently in_ ’ to that list but unfortunately John and Sherlock had stumbled across that unfortunate incident. Sherlock had deleted it, but it kept resurfacing every time the ‘ _forensic expert_ ’ got a bit flustered at Sherlock’s deductions and insults and his voice would take on a slightly higher pitch (not as high as the _bathroom incident_ ) and the whole incident would come flooding back. It didn’t help that John noticed this too and it made him start giggling.

“I am here to see Lestrade” Sherlock replied smoothly, glowering down at the smaller woman who was trying to block his path.

“We don’t currently have a case for you, freak, so why?” Her hands had moved from her hips to fold across her chest. She was trying to show her assertiveness. Not unusual for her, but she seemed to be trying a bit harder than normal this time. Sherlock’s eyes did a quick scan of the room around him, stopping on the cubicle two down and on the left. He almost sighed, disappointedly, at how easy it all was.

“Does Anderson know about Wilkons, or is it something he also participates in?”

At this deduction Sally’s demeanour became wilted and she paled, as did the new Sargent in the cubicle two down and on the left. Sherlock stepped around Donovan and continued towards the small office at the end of the large room, giving a now ill looking Wilkons a wide, but false, grin on the way past.

Without any further interruptions Sherlock flung the door that he was aiming for open and strode into the office, slamming the door shut behind him.

“I need a case Lestrade anything. A nice triple, locked room murder would be perfect.”

Lestrade looked up from his tuna salad roll, not at all surprised to see six foot of moody man child in his office. He had received no less than thirty-four messages from him since he was quite rudely woken up, from a pretty damn good sleep, at 5:45 this morning from the very first of those texts wanting to know about someone called _Jonesy_.

“Sorry, right out of those” Lestrade told him, stuffing his mouth full of wholemeal bread and lettuce. God he hated it, but he had put on six pound in the last month.

“A bank robbery” Sherlock demanded, leaning on the back of the visitors chair, trying to intimidate the DI with his glare. It wasn’t working, but at least the Consulting Detectives presence had made his sandwich seem more appealing.

“Not my division” he mumbles around a mouthful of bread.

“Arson” he ordered.

Greg shook his head and picked up the bottle of water and took a drink, washing down a bit of cucumber that had decided to stick to the back of his throat. “Still not my division.”

“Abduction, embezzlement, _Bloody Dog napping_.” Sherlock was frantic now. He had actually not only offered to solve a dog napping, but had pulled his hair as he said it.

With a resigned sigh, (because he knew a tantrum was on the way), he opened his mouth and said “Not my division, not my division and _most definitely_ not my division” before shoving the rest of his lunch in his mouth.

The consulting detective glared down at the detective inspector. “What exactly _is_ your purpose?”

“Homicide, Sherlock. That is my division.” Greg could see the confusion on Sherlocks face as he tried to process what the DI was telling him

“So, no kidnappings?” He asked, not quite sure if this was the correct line of questioning to follow.

The Di shook his head and took another swig of water as the confused frown on his face got that bit deeper.

“No priceless heirlooms gone missing?”

Another shake of the head.

“A chain of fire extinguisher factories getting torch….”

“What part of _not my division_ are you not getting?”

“But what about the hutchinson case?”

Lestrade drew a blank. Hutchinson? He hadn’t had a case involving anyone called Hutchinson. His confusion must have shown on his face.

“You know” Sherlock tried to encourage, as one would a simpleton at doing a simple task. “Eloped with the second cousin but was already married to the nun. Stole a fortune from the great grandmother.”

“That would have been McAllan’s case.”

“The Getterson case?” Sherlock looked at Greg as if he were being purposely obtuse just to piss Sherlock off, and all though that was sometimes tempting it usually wasn’t worth the sulk that it caused. “Greek Historian went missing only to be found a week later dressed as a French clown and no recollection of anything that had happened to him.”

“Davies handles missing persons” Lestrade informed him, finally seeing where Sherlock had gone wrong. For some reason, unknown to Greg, the younger man had taken a shine to Lestrade and for another reason, also unknown to Greg, he didn’t delete the interaction that they had, therefore, all cases, in Sherlocks head, were carried out with Lestrade as head of the group. Greg tried not to feel proud at that fact, but it was no use. There was a warmth blooming through his chest as he sat there looking at the man above him who was trying very hard not to completely lose what little control he had.

“Surely you remember the Drugs lab at the Amish Kindergarten.”

“Yeah, I do”

At that Sherlocks face lit up. And Greg couldn’t help smile, even though his next confession was going to frustrate the man even more.

“Because John told me about it at the pub after you finished. Apparently Jacobson, who handles narcotics, was nearly ready to kill you. She has been on stress leave since then by the way.”

For a brief few moments there was blissful silence in his office as Sherlock processed everything he had just been told. Facts that hadn’t needed to be explained to others because others didn’t seem small things, like working with different DI’s, to be unimportant.

“So, what you are actually saying is that you only handle….”

“Homicide, yes. That is my division” Lestrade finished.

Again, a minute of silence.

“And you have never worked on any case that wasn’t homicide with me?”

A sympathetic look and a slow shake of the head.

“But, not even two months ago I worked a vandalism at a muslim midget fashion show. I clearly remember yelling at Anderson for mistaking the perpetrators footprints for those of a child, when they had _clearly_ belonged to the Albino Dwarf with a bowed left leg and tennis elbow.”

“Anderson is forensics. He works wherever they need him.”

“I think _need_ is a strong word. If being needed was the only criteria they would go to the zoo and pluck a chimpanzee from the cage before calling on Anderson. They’re _obliged_ to use him because they signed a contract offering him employment over un-evolved primates.”

Lestrade ignored the gibe, which helped to conceal the grin he wanted to let loose at the insult. As annoying as Anderson was he actually wasn’t that bad at his job. He may not have been as good at it as Sherlock, but then again, none of them were.

The Di looked up as the younger man started pacing the floor of his small office. Considering the length of the man’s legs, it didnn’t take long for him to reach one side of the room before having to do an about face and stalk to the other side of the room and then repeating the loop. He is on his fifth round before Greg starts getting dizzy.

“So when is John getting back?’

“Who says John is away”

 _Sigh_. “Because you only ever get this restless lately when John isn’t around, so either he is away temporarily or you have finally managed to drive him away for good, but due to the man’s devotion to you I really don’t see that happening, especially if it hasn’t happened already.”

“Devotion? What devotion? John isn’t devoted to me. He’s just…there. Or _not_ there at the moment.”

Greg can’t help but notice the huff and the turn up of his nose at the end of that statement.

“You know, for an all seeing genius you can be blindly daft sometimes.”

Sherlocks head stopped doing the little arrogant upturned thing to snap down and do the personally affronted thing that it does. Two of his regular looks, Greg has noticed.

Greg looked at the glowering man above him. It was unbelievable. How either of those two hadn’t yet realised what everyone else could see was beyond Greg. They would have to be the most emotionally stunted, self-denying, stubborn asses that Greg had ever come across.

You only had to look at the way that Sherlock looked at John, smiled and laughed with him. The way that any insults uttered in Johns direction were only half as acerbic as the ones he threw at anyone else, to know that he was smitten with the doctor. And anyone that saw how John did anything for Sherlock ( _and that included opening up a packet of crisps and hand feeding him to the detective one by one as Sherlock had decided that, on that particular day, he felt that the salt in the crisps would dry his hands out. Greg saw it for what it was, as did John, a ploy at seeing how far Sherlock could manipulate John but he had done it anyway_.) Or you only had to read his blog to know that John was completely head over heels for the insufferable man who was still currently trying to give Greg the death glare.

But apparently neither of them got it, so Greg, after watching them do their little dance for far too long now, decided to take it upon himself to spell it out to the not so genius. He held out a hand, indicating that Sherlock should sit down. The man, much to Greg’s surprise, did so with out any rancour or fuss.

“You can’t possibly not have noticed the way that John looks at you, the way he follows you.” Greg said.

At this Sherlock scoffed. “Of course I have. He follows me around because it’s what we do. It’s the chase. He needs it. And he looks at me because I am there. What else would he look at?” If anyone else had muttered that sentence it would have come off as condescendingly vain. On Sherlock it was just true.

“Have you read his blog?”

A small, indescribable noise happened somewhere in the vicinity of the back of Sherlocks throat and Greg could see his eye balls quivering as he valiantly restrained from rolling them.

With a slow inhale through his nostrils, as he composed himself, Sherlock answered. “Unfortunately, yes, I have subjected myself to the over romanticised and abhorrently grammatically incorrect accounts of our cases together.”

Greg couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face.

“Yet, you keep reading” he pointed out.

Sherlock opened his mouth, tongue ready to lash out a scathing retort, but then he seemed to think better of it and closed his mouth and sat back in the chair, pointedly _not_ looking at Greg.

“I know you think you’re a sociopath, Sherlock, and before John I was somewhat dubious about the description. But now I don’t believe it for a second. I have seen the way you two act around each other, _hell_ , everyone has seen it. It appears the only two that _haven’t_ noticed it is you and John, so I am going to give you some advice.”

Sherlock went to go open his mouth, surely with some bullshit about not needing relationship advice from a man who couldn’t even see that his own wife was cheating but Greg put his hand up to stop him before he could start.

“You don’t have to do anything with what I am about to tell you, I’m probably sure you will delete it as soon as you leave the office, but I’m going to share it with you anyway.”

Looking at the man across from him, Greg knew that the advice was going to be sneered and scorned at but with any luck he would ponder over it for a while and maybe, _just maybe_ , it _might_ sink in. So with a deep breath DI Gregory Lestrade opened his mouth and told Sherlock Holmes something he should have been told a good year ago.

“You need to pull your head out of your arse, drop this _caring is not an advantage_ bullshit and have a really good look at what is in front of you. John is a good man, and god knows he needs a bloody saint hood for putting up with your shit, and rather graciously I might add. So you need to drop this emotionally stunting chip you have on your shoulder, man the fuck up and ask John Watson out.”

There was silence in the office for all of ten seconds before the consulting detective, who had been eyeing Greg with a steely cool indifference, stood up and silently made his way out of Greg’s office.

It wouldn’t be until two o’clock in the following morning that he would hear from the man again.

~o~

Sherlock paced back and forth, the skull smiling at him mockingly from the mantel.

Lestrade was an idiot. _A bumbling moron_. The man didn’t even know that his own wife was cheating on him. _Three times_ , and once with his own brother for crying out loud.

“What would he know any way” he growled at the skull, who just grinned manically back at him. Silent as always. “I think I would know if I felt like…… _that”_ he hissed the last word as if it were a vile taste in his mouth, “….I would know. I am not emotionally stunted and I most certainly don’t _have my head up my_ ….”

“ _Woohoo_ , Sherlock dear” Sherlocks diatribe towards the inanimate object was cut short as his landlady let herself in, bringing with her the scent of lamb korma and coconut rice.

“This just arrived for John, but didn’t he go away with his….”

“Yes, yes Mrs Hudson. John’s in _Cornwall_ , we don’t need to continually hash over facts we already know” Sherlock snapped, taking the bag away from her. Sure enough, the receipt had todays’s date, Johns name and the last four digits of Johns credit card number on it.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong.” Mrs Hudson’s motherly side was not the easiest to ignore. Whenever she was like this Sherlock always felt guilty for snapping at her. But that didn’t stop him.

“There is absolutely nothing wrong” Sherlock sneered. “So feel free to take yourself back off down stairs and maybe consider taking your soother early tonight.” And with that he strode off into the kitchen, hoping she wouldn’t follow him.

She didn’t. Sherlock listened to her go back down the stairs, mumbling something about _pacing caged tigers_ and _bloody family reunions_ , but Sherlock ignored her, studying the bag.

Why would there be a delivery for John when John wasn’t here. Hadn’t been for two days according to the text he received this morning.

He studied the bag and slowly opened the contents of the plastic containers inside. He sniffed. It all smelt okay and looked okay. But it still could have been tampered with.

Sherlock took a photo of the containers and the receipt and sent it to Johns phone, with an insidious sort of gleefulness that he would be interrupting a date. Because John should not be in _Cornwall_ with _Jasmine_ doing whatever it is one does on a romant…..on holiday. He should be here entertaining Sherlock because for the past three days there have been no cases. Not even dull ones. Sherlock has been going out of his mind with boredom. It was so bad that he spent nearly eight whole minutes with his brothers number pulled up on his phone, his thumb shakily hovering over the ring icon, so desperate was he for the work. That was when he decided to go to the yard, despite Lestrades insistence that there was definitely no work for him to do. And what a train wreck that was. Sherlock left feeling more frustrated, but this time for a completely different reason.

Sherlock was pulled out of his thought by his phone beeping. He looked down to see that John had replied.

**Yes, I ordered it, no it’s not tampered with. It is from the Indian shop you like. I figured you wouldn’t feed yourself while I was gone, and Mrs Hudson tells me none of the meals have been taken out of the freezer, so I organised something pre-cooked and already hot for you. Enjoy. I will see you tomorrow.**

Sherlock looked from his phone, to the meal on the table. John. Ordinary, reliable, _completely extraordinary_ John, had thought about Sherlock whilst on his…trip.

Sherlock, picked up the containers, and a fork from the draw, and made his way to the couch where he sat and thought about things as he slowly chewed on bits of lamb.

Maybe Lestrade was onto something. Maybe John did feel _something_ …more, for Sherlock.

Sherlock chewed on another bit of lamb as he thought more about John, and he made a list of all of his attributes.

  * John was smart, well, smarter than most.
  * John wasn’t squeamish.
  * John had a rather extensive amount of medical knowledge, which, Sherlock supposed, came from being a doctor.
  * John was handy at combat.
  * John shot a man to save Sherlock the day after meeting Sherlock.
  * John followed wherever Sherlock went, even if he thought it was a bad idea.
  * John carried out instructions, even when he thought they weren’t a good idea.
  * John doesn’t like Mycroft either, and refused payment to spy on Sherlock.
  * John doesn’t call Sherlock a freak.
  * John calls Sherlock amazing.
  * And brilliant.
  * And fantastic.
  * John makes that nice thing, with the peas.
  * John was still with Sherlock.
  * John looked after Sherlock.
  * John was a good looking man.
  * John ordered Sherlock dinner, in London, while he was on a date in Cornwall.



Sherlock ran that list through his head. He then analysed each point and how it made him feel. He had to admit, he did tolerate traits in John that he would not even think about enduring for a brief moment with other people. Things like:

  * His horrid taste in jumpers.
  * His abysmal attempt at the daily crossword.
  * His droll taste in movies.
  * His predictable taste in books.
  * His, quite frankly, embarrassing speed at texting and typing.
  * His need to hum while he does the dishes (although on closer inspection Sherlock might be more inclined to put that up in pro’s list.)
  * His need to force food down Sherlocks throat at regular intervals with the need to nag him about regular sleep, which, to be fair, are only an issue while he is on cases.
  * His compulsive need to label everything that goes into the fridge, not only with a name, but also with a date.
  * His friendly disposition towards the average daily moron, (which again, could be put in the pro’s list as it does come in handy on cases).
  * His constant need to have a girlfriend, who are always dull, boring and terribly horrid.



Sherlock would not have lasted one day with anyone else who exhibited these flaws, yet he had been living with John now for just on a year and accepted him in all his imperfection. Just as John accepted Sherlock in all of his.

So, maybe, Lestrade was right, and Sherlock started looking at John in a different light. What if they were to pursue a relationship of a more sentimental nature. What would change. They would still work cases. There would still be body parts in the fridge. John would still pay the bills and do the vacuuming, and Sherlock would still dismantle the toaster and put slugs in with the tea bags. John would still listen to Sherlock play the violin and Sherlock would still watch _double - oh - something or other_ movies with John. There would be hugging and kissing and sex. Sherlock wasn’t averse to the idea. In fact, in the past he had enjoyed sex. It was the people he didn’t like, but he liked John. John was tolerable, likeable. Some would say loveable, even. He was loyal and honourable. He was interesting and safe and comfortable and home.

John was on a romantic holiday with _Jasmine_ in _Cornwall._

This left Sherlock more frustrated than ever. Now he was aware that, _yes_ , he did actually feel something for John Watson, but there was nothing Sherlock could do about it because John wasn’t gay and John had a girlfriend. This was Lestrades fault. If he had just kept his damn advice to himself Sherlock would just be bored. Now his lamenting the fact that John will never be his.

With trembling fingers Sherlock fired of a text to his idiot DI.

**If John was feeling so amorous towards me then why is he in Cornwall with Jasmine, right now, as we speak? SH**

When there was no reply Sherlock felt the need to send another text.

**You won’t answer me because you know I was right. John is not devoted to me. You were wrong! SH**

Sherlock fired off the second message while already mentally composing the third.

**So, next time, if you could please keep your opinions and advice to yourself your will be saving me a headache. SH**

It was as he was getting ready to write a fourth message when he got a reply.

**Sherlock, you mad bastard. It is 2 am. Some of us actually do need a good nights sleep before we have to get up at a decent hour to go to our actual jobs. Stop sending me bloody messages.**

Sherlock ignored the text, typing out another one.

**This is all your fault. SH**

There was silence for one and a half minutes before Lestrades next text came through and during that time Sherlock felt the briefest hint of glee at putting Greg in his place, and although it only made him feel a _tiny_ bit better it was better than not feeling better at all.

**What is all my fault and what do you mean John is in Cornwall. I didn’t think that was until next weekend.**

Sherlock feels a simmering rage, somewhere in his lower gut, as he reads and then rereads that message.

**So you knew of Johns latest conquest yet still decided to inform me of his attraction to me. You, Graham, are a bigger idiot than I thought. SH**

Sherlock is almost feeling childish enough to ignore the ringing phone, Lestrades name lighting up the screen. In the end, the desire to speak insults at a living person becomes too great and his thumb slides the answer icon across the screen.

“It’s Greg and what do you mean conquest?”

“His latest _shag_ ” Sherlock spat. “The harpy he has gone to _Cornwall_ with. If he was so devo…..”

Sherlock stopped at the, quite frankly _painful_ sounding groan at the other end of the phone and fell silent.

“I stand by my previous comment. _You really are daft sometimes_.” With another sigh, this one being of someone who has been long suffering, with no relief to be seen in the near future, Lestrade carried on.

“Jasmine is his cousin from Canada. He has been rather excited, for the past two weeks, at her upcoming, well now _current_ , visit. He hasn’t seen her since just after he started uni, which was when she immigrated. They have gone to Cornwall for her parents 30th wedding anniversary, which he has also been carrying on about for the past fortnight.

“He has told you all of this, repeatedly, but you are so bloody self-absorbed, deeming everything that anyone who is not you says as boring, unimportant or idiotic, that you have either missed or deleted anything John has said on the topic. _For god sake_ , John hasn’t been on a date, and trust me he has had offers, for the past four months or so.”

There was silence for a good five seconds before Sherlock announced, “ _Wrong_.”

“What do you mean, Wrong” Greg all but groaned in frustration.

“Not two weeks ago John was going out with a woman, Italian origins, owns a Labradoodle and has a think for Giant insects. Maria, was her name, therefore you are _Wrong!_.”

Sherlock could envision the way Lestrade would be trying to bury his face in the palm of his hands as he sighed yet again.

“Maria is a lesbian and was getting medical info for a novel she is writing.”

Again, Sherlock was stunned into silence. How did he miss that? _There was always something_.

“Listen, as I will say this only once, because it is 2 in the morning and I am not up for repeating myself” Lestrade practically growled down the phone. It was clearly evident that he was _not_ in a good mood.

“That conversation I had with you earlier, back in my office, I have had a very similar one with John recently, but he is as bloody stubborn as what you are. Not only, though, is he in denial to what everyone but you two can see, but he also, for some reason that is completely unfathomable to me, doesn’t think that he would be good enough, or interesting enough for the likes of you, which is ridiculous, because as I said before, John is a good man. Not only that but he puts up with so much of your fucking crap he deserves a god-damn medal for it, but I am not John. I am not in denial, therefore I will, and have, told you what you both needed to hear, because face it, everyone is tired of the fucking dance you two are doing. It is frustrating and the betting pool at work has reached a ridiculously high amount, nor do I put up with your shit, which is why I am going to hang up and know, Sherlock, that if you ever call me at 2am again, or any other time that you may suspect I might be asleep, and it is not case related or a life or death situation I will ban you from any case above a five, regardless of how long it takes us to solve it without you. Goodnight.”

Sherlock went to add in a quick, scathing retort, but Lestrade had held true to his word and hung up. There was no one on the other end of the line.

Once again Sherlock took up residence on the couch, this time laying his long form along the length, his hands brought up in his usual meditating pose, steepled under his chin, phone loosely clasped between his palms. He laid and, in the dim lamp light, closed his eyes and thought.

Sherlock thought about everything that Lestrade had said.

_‘You can’t possibly not have noticed the way that John looks at you’._

John did look at Sherlock. _A lot_. He always had. Ever since their meeting at Barts. And it wasn’t with the usual loathing that is normally thrown his way.

_‘I have seen the way you two act around each other’._

How did they act around each other? It was perfectly natural, the way they acted, granted, Sherlock did tolerate John more than he did others, enjoyed his company even and John did put up with a lot from Sherlock. A lot more than he would seemingly put up with from other people and he also seemed to enjoy Sherlocks company, if the late night giggling, sunny smiles and friendly banter were anything to go by.

_‘John hasn’t been on a date, and trust me he has had offers, for the past four months or so’._

That was true. Apart from Maria and Jasmine, neither of who John was actually romantically involved with, he hadn’t been out dating. Most nights he spent at home with Sherlock. Other nights he spent at the pub with one of his mates, and even rarer he went to see his sister for the weekend.

Sherlock looked at the relationship that they already had.

John followed him around on cases, praising his brilliance. Sherlock tried harder in order to keep that praise coming along, as it obviously made John happy…. _obviously._

John cooked and Sherlock made a habit to eat more.

John cleaned and Sherlock made a habit not to spread his mess so far.

Sherlock got injured, John patched him up so he didn’t have to go to hospital.

Sherlock handed over his credit card that was linked to a joint bank account and John did the shopping and paid the bills.

They spent many nights, on the couch, eating takeaway and watching crap telly.

Sherlock composed music in Johns name and John praised him once again.

John made tea perfectly and Sherlock drank it.

John accompanied Sherlock on those arduous days that he had to go see his brother, and made him feel better at the end of the visit by agreeing that, yes, Mycroft had put on another one and a half pounds even when it was clear he had lost half a pound.

They made small talk, regularly, but John also knew when Sherlock needed silence.

He did love the smaller man, despite his inability to do basic crosswords and his bad taste in jumpers. He always had. At least, he thought he had. It was something he had acknowledged a long time ago, but had pushed it aside as being non-imperative to the running of things in 221 B Baer Street.

Maybe it was what made the running of their home so smooth!

Sherlocks eyes snapped open and his lips formed a small _o_ as an even smaller gasp escaped those lips.

He and John were in a relationship. A _relationship_ , relationship, and had been for the better part of a year.

Sherlock frowned. All this time they could have been having sex.

Angrily, (more-so with himself for not noticing it earlier), Sherlock unlocked his phone and quickly tapped out a message to John.

**Baker Street at once. Emergency. SH**

It was almost five minutes before there was a reply.

**Unless it is life or death I don’t want to know, and if it is, call your brother, or Greg, or 999. Im in fucking CORNWALL for crying out loud.**

Sherlock sighed in the most frustrated fashion that he could. It was a good thing he was in love with this man otherwise there was no way he would tolerate his obtuseness and/or lack of compassion for Sherlock’s needs.

**But I need you here, as soon as possible. There is a train that leaves at 5:03. That gives you 87 minutes to pack and get to the station. SH**

There was only two minutes between texts this time. John must be awake properly now. ‘ _Good_ ’ Sherlock thought to himself.

**Sherlock. What is going on. Have you been drugged?**

Sherlock glared down at his phone as if the small device was at fault for John’s sudden contumacy.

**Don’t be an idiot John, we both no it doesn’t suit you. Just get packed. I am booking your ticket now. SH**

Sherlock, true to his word, had finished booking a new ticket in Johns name, just as his mobile vibrated with a new message.

**Sherlock, I am checking out the hotel at 10, having brunch with my aunty and uncle and then catching the 11:27 back to London. I will be in at 5:12, as I told you, several times, on Thursday.**

By now Sherlock was ready to pull his hair out. Why was John being so stubborn? It must be all that fresh seaside air. Rots the brain.

**John, we need to consummate our relationship, and I’d rather it get done sooner rather than later, as we have wasted several months already, so if you would please just get to the train station soon. You have already wasted 12 minutes. SH**

There was nothing. Silence. It seemed even the cars on Baker Street had suddenly stopped. After 11 minutes Sherlock had used all of his patience reserves and fired off another text to John.

**I am assuming your lack of response is an indication of you packing your bags and making your way to the train station. SH**

The response he received was not what he wanted to read.

**No. It’s not. What the fuck drugs have you been taking this time?**

Sherlock rolls his eyes and then mumbles out a curse in Lestrades name. This was still all his fault.

**I am not taking drugs, nor have I conducted any experiments that have involved noxious gases, nor eaten the Indian take away that has been sitting in the fridge for thirty-seven days. I am perfectly lucid and I refuse to repeat myself other than to say, get. On. That. Train. SH**

Sherlock almost throws the phone, in sheer frustration at the next message.

**You are madder than I thought if you think I am packing up in the dead of night and jumping on the first train just because you feel the need to carry out some weird experiment. I am not a test subject Sherlock. Stop messaging me, I am going back to sleep and I will see you just before 6. Tonight!**

Ignoring Johns request to stop messaging him he typed out another text.

**John, upon looking back on our time together it has come to my attention that we are already in a relationship. We work together, eat together, have joint funds, enjoy each others company and put up with each others flaws. We spend a large amount of our spare time together. I make you laugh, you make me tea and we are comfortable in each others presence and we find each other attractive, no, don’t deny it, you won’t be fooling anyone. The only thing we do not do is have mind blowing sex, on any available surface, on a regular basis and I personally, would like to put a stop to that, so will you please just get on the damn 5:03! SH**

Sherlock laid back on the couch and waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing. There was no response. John didn’t answer.

He dropped his phone to the floor and waited a bit longer.

Sherlock looked at the clock. 5:29. The train would have left by now. John hadn’t responded.

Sherlock slipped back into his mind palace and ran over everything again. Everything he had stored away in his head about his time with John (and it is quite a lot) since their very first meeting. He ran through everything that Lestrade had told him for what seems the hundredth time and he played over the text conversation he had just had with John.

He was certain that he had drawn the correct conclusion. He ran over and over again all of the facts and tried to figure out where he had gone wrong. He couldn’t see it. He could not find the flaw _anywhere_.

It was right there, in technicolor, flashing neon, print. He was attracted to ( _in love with_ ) John Watson. John Watson was attracted to him Lestrade said _devoted_. So, what was the problem.

John often banged on about not being gay, but it didn’t take an idiot to see that there had been some bisexual activities happening not only at uni, but also during the army. Plus, his protestations had died down in that past few months. Possibly around the same time that he stopped dating, Sherlock could conclude, now that he had that fact drawn to his attention.

So, what was John’s problem. Sherlock had followed Lestrades advice and stopped dicking around. He had, in Lestrades words, _manned the fuck up and asked…._

_Oh…_

Maybe John wanted to actually go out on a date first. Technically they went on plenty of dates, (Angelo still put out a candle), but Sherlock had never _formally_ asked John out, and after all, that was what John did with all of his…all of those _others_.

Sherlock looked back at the clock. 10:55. He sighed. John would be getting on the train in just over half an hour. That gave him just over six hours to come up with a perfectly tangible excuse to have demanded that John come home for sex. Immediately. From across the other side of the isle, and to plan how to _woo_ (he shuddered as the word formed in his head) John, so they could have wild sex that would finally necessitate Mrs Hudson using the ear plugs she had bought after John had moved in.

Sherlock made his way to the bathroom, stripping off as he entered, dumping his clothes on the floor, where his others from the past three days laid. (John would organise them to go to the dry cleaners for him.) After showering he dried off, made his way to his room and dressed. He was formulating a plan but needed some advice. Molly was working today, so a trip to the morgue was in order, and hopefully he could acquire something to pass the remaining hours until John came home. He made his way out to the living room and pulled his coat and scarf off of the hook and applied them to the appropriate parts of his anatomy before placing his keys and wallet in his pockets and looking around for his phone.

Just as he spied it on the floor by the couch the front door down stairs opened. His first thought was Mrs Hudson but then the feet made their way up to flat B at an alarmingly fast rate for someone carrying something in their left hand, making their gait uneven.

A few seconds later John burst through the door, his travel bag in one hand, a harried expression on the other.

“Fucking taxi drivers” he grumbled and then took in Sherlocks appearance and his face went of that of mildly pissed off to one of disappointed confusion.

“Your…your going out?”

Sherlock looked down his body, taking in the blue of the scarf and the dark grey of the coat and then looked back up at John.

“You’re not in Cornwall?”

“You messaged me at three thirty this morning and told me to get on a train.” 

"You told me you would be here just before six.” 

"You put up a pretty good argument to get on that bloody train.”

“You didn’t respond.”

“I responded, _like five times_.”

Sherlock looked down to where his phone was on the floor. He walked over and picked it up. Sure enough there were five unread messages from _Dr John Watson_.

Opening them up he saw that the first one came at 5:32 saying that the train was running a bit late. The last one was received twenty minutes ago saying that he was in London and getting a cab right now. Sherlock must have been lost in his own head, and then in the shower, when they had come through. He looked at the phone in his hand and then back up at John, who was looking less rushed and less disappointed but still confused.

“So, you in fact….”

“Yes.”

With that John dropped his bag, kicking the door shut before stepping towards Sherlock as Sherlock ripped off his scarf, throwing it over his shoulder, as he too stepped forwards, towards John. Within a few steps they were in front of each other and John grabbed the lapels of Sherlocks coat and pulled him down, crashing their lips together in a messy, frantic kiss that was lips and teeth and tongues.

Johns hands stayed clenched on Sherlocks jacket while Sherlocks hands came up to John’s face, holding him in place, making it clear that he could not leave until Sherlock gave him permission to. Unfortunately that came too soon, when breathing became not so much as boring, but a god-damn _hinderance_.

“Lestrade’s been talking to you, hasn’t he.” John puffed with red, kiss swollen lips.

“ _At me_ , is more like it” Sherlock grumbled.

A small giggle escaped John’s mouth and Sherlock couldn’t help but grin back.

“I do believe you said something about mind blowing sex” John whispered huskily as he leaned up, nipping Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth.

Sherlock groaned, and by sheer will alone managed not sink into the boneless puddle his legs were threatening to do. “Bedroom” he managed to get out between biting and licking at John’s mouth.

“Bedroom” John agreed, tugging Sherlock as he manoeuvred backwards towards the kitchen, not letting his mouth move from Sherlocks mouth, jaw or neck.

Somehow they managed to make it, only walking into the table twice and the doorframe once.

Along the way both Sherlock and John’s coats had been disposed of, falling onto the floor somewhere along the way and shirt buttons had been undone. Once in the bedroom any remaining clothing was quickly opened and removed and before long both of them were on the bed, naked, lips and hands still exploring the others body.

Not a word was uttered until Sherlock placed his mouth over Johns right nipple and his hand around his twitching erection.

“ _Fucking….God…Sherlock_ ” was practically shouted as Johns back arched and his hand came up to the back of Sherlocks neck. Sherlocks hand, pumping over Johns cock and his tongue which laved the nipple in his mouth worked in tandem, working to elicit the sweetest sound out of Johns rather delectable mouth.

Johns other hand came up to Sherlocks shoulder and sort of _pushed/pulled_ , clearly not sure whether he wanted Sherlock to return back to his mouth or continue his journey down. Sherlock made the decision for him and let his mouth continue its mission to taste as much as John Watson as possible as it moved down his abdomen, sucking, licking and biting as it roamed further and further down.

John moaned when Sherlock reached his groin and placed small kisses to the tip of his cock, lapping up the small amount of semen that had pearled at the tip. The moans got louder when Sherlock took the entire head in his mouth, running his tongue around the glans and gently sucked. The moans turned to a needy whimper as Sherlock brought his hand up to gentle roll Johns scrotum in his hand, applying enough pressure to leave the man writhing, but not enough to make him scoot back in fear of losing his ability to produce offspring in the future.

Sherlocks mouth moved from the head of John’s cock, further down his length, taking in as much as possible, before hollowing out his cheeks and giving a rather hard suck, before sliding his lips back up to concentrate on the head again. Sherlock repeated the process over and over again, savouring the little pants and gasps and grunts that John made, and relishing the control that John was trying to execute in order to not thrust up into Sherlocks mouth, or push his head further down onto the cock that was in his mouth. Sherlock wouldn’t mind either scenario but there was something about the fact that he could make John _have_ to reign in that temptation, to force himself to take control, that went straight to his own cock that was now achingly hard and quite wet with his own pre-come.

After a few more bobs of his head Sherlock pulled completely off of John’s cock, the turgid flesh now glinting with saliva, dark red in colour. “Turn” he instructed, placing his hands on John’s hips, urging him to flip over onto his stomach.

John looked to Sherlock. he looked wrecked. His bottom lip was red and puffy from biting onto it. His skin was flushed a rather attractive shade of pink, his hair was standing up in multiple directions and his eyes were almost black with desire, but there was also an uncertain look in them. Sherlock returned a look that told him everything would be fine, and with an almost non-existent nod, John turned over.

Sherlock couldn’t help the gasp that left his throat. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen Johns back before, but never in this context. It was almost all muscle, and a small amount of fat covered in a light golden skin, tapering down into a tidy waist that topped a rather fine, pert looking arse. A small grin crossed his face as he noted two perfect Venusian dimples, perfectly placed above each cheek. Sherlock placed his hands on each of John’s arse cheeks, the tip of each middle finger gently pressing into aforementioned dimples, and gently clenched them in his hands before his hands smoothly glided up, over his waist, dipping into the small of his back and continuing up to broad shoulders, before reversing the journey back down, where they stopped on John’s hips. With a small tug Sherlock pulled on the hips in his hands and John pulled up onto his knees. He went to raise his upper body up onto his elbows but Sherlock placed a hand between his shoulder blades and gently pushed him back down. With a small groan, John obliged.

Dragging his hand down John’s spine Sherlock could feel John tense and then relax as his hand stopped back on his hip again and Sherlock lowered his head down to place a small kiss in the centre of John’s lower back. And then another one, and another one, each one moving just that little bit lower until Sherlock was kissing the top of John’s gluteal cleft. A sharp intake of breath was the only thing to be heard from above, but there was not protestation so Sherlock continued.

Sherlock slid his hands down further and used his thumbs to spread John’s cheeks, exposing a tight ring of muscle and without any further thought or consideration, lowered his mouth down and placed a kiss on the tight furled pucker. The whimper that came from John encouraged Sherlock to keep going, so flattening his tongue he licked from John’s perineum up to the top of his cleft, he did this again and then stopped to gently bite the flesh of John’s left cheek. This caused John to cry out, but there was no hint of pain in the vocalisation so Sherlock continued to worship Johns arse with his mouth, kissing and biting and licking until John was a sweating, gasping mess above him, pleading for more, but begging him not to stop.

His broken words turned into noise that was deep, yet high pitched, a whine, yet a moan as Sherlock pointed his tongue and plunged into John’s body, pushing through that tight ring. His tongue swirled around inside of John, slicking up against his smooth walls, as far as Sherlock could reach, before pulling out and plunging back in to repeat the motion all over again.

“… _Sherlock_ ….” John finally managed to croak out between pants and gasps and deep moans. “I need….I need… _God, I need more_ ” he finally panted, his words contradicting his current actions of pushing his arse back towards Sherlocks tongue. “…you…I need…. _.God, fuck_ ….you.”

With one last bite to John’s arse Sherlock pulled away, a whimper leaving Johns mouth as he did so, and he leaned over John, reaching for the drawer next to the bed, pulling it open and removing a half empty bottle of lubricant. The action of leaning over caused his own, hard erection to brush up against John’s backside. A small moan left Sherlocks mouth, but a much louder one left Johns and he pushed back against Sherlock and he ground his arse agains Sherlocks cock. The pleasure that balled behind his groin and shot up his spine was so intense he almost dropped the bottle in his hand.

“ _John_.” It was a feeble attempt to get John to stop what he was doing, but at the moment it was all he was capable of.

“Hurry up” John groused from the top of the bed and Sherlock, not one who needs telling twice, straightened up and uncapped the bottle.

With his fingers slicked up and warmed he lowered them back down to Johns arse and gently prodded between the crack, instantly finding the breach he was after, still slick with his saliva, and with the aid of the lubricant, Sherlocks finger slipped in easily, despite John’s natural reaction to prevent it from happening so. After a while he was pushing back on Sherlocks thrusting finger, begging for more and Sherlock was happy to oblige. Once John had become used to two fingers he slowly separated them, stretching John a bit more and John keened, a bit out of pain, but more out of pleasure, so Sherlock did it again, twisting his fingers as he scissored them, stretching John a bit more each time. Before long John was gasping for more, so slowly Sherlock added a third finger and John’s back arched down as Sherlock pushed them all the way in. With a small crook of his fingers John was crying out, his back arching up as he cried out, swearing a blue streak, some words, Sherlock hadn’t even heard before.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock. I swear, you need to get your cock in me, NOW” he demanded, sinking back down, so his shoulders were once again resting on the mattress, which in turn angled his arse up even further, pushing Sherlocks fingers back onto his prostate.

“ _Nnghhhhh_ ….Sherlock….” he whined and Sherlock slowly removed his fingers, a slow gasp leaving John as Sherlock watched his now empty anus flutter at the sudden emptiness. A small moan moved his attention away from Johns hole to his own leaking, hard prick, which was twitching in earnest now, as if it knew where it was about to go and couldn’t wait any longer to be at its final destination.

Carefully, he lined his cock up at John’s entrance and slowly pushed in. Apparently too slow for John’s liking who pushed back until his arse was flush against Sherlocks pelvis.

“ _Oh, God_ ” Sherlock groaned, deep and low, as he tried, heroically, not to come, right there and then.

John on the other hand was panting, hard and Sherlock could feel small contractions as John stopped himself from beginning to thrust.

Once Sherlock had composed himself so he was no longer in a state that would see him coming if he took a deep breath, and gripping John’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, he began to thrust. Small, slow thrusts at first, letting John get used to his size and to the feeling of being full. Eventually the thrusts evolved into longer thrusts which gradually got harder and harder and faster and faster. Both of them sweating, and John pushing back to meet every forward thrust of Sherlocks. The room was filled with the sound of gasps and grunts, moans and broken whimpers, sweat dampened skin slapping against more skin and the wet, slick sound of Sherlock pulling out and thrusting back into Johns tight arse.

As the thrusts sped up and got harder, so did their breathing and before long, the rhythm that they had fallen into was broken as Sherlock could feel his lower stomach tightening and his balls drawing up, his grip on Johns hips, which was harder to maintain due to the sweat coating their bodies, tightened and his movements went from lust filled and desperate to frantic and brutal. He sped up to a pace that John couldn’t seem to catch up to as the wound up coil inside of him twisted one more time before snapping and releasing, sending wave after wave of pleasure through his body as spurt after spurt of his come flooded the inside of John's passage, mixing with sweat and lubricant, and Sherlock thrust one last time as a loud moan filled the room and then he stilled, his head filled with white noise as his lungs burned and struggled to take in air.

Slowly his breathing slowed down, his head cleared and his grip loosened on Johns hips and a small whimper below him reminded him that John was still waiting for release. Without another thought he reached around and grabbed John’s cock at the base. With deft, precise movements Sherlocks hands moved up John’s cock and back down again, back up, his thumb rubbing over the head before travelling back down. Sherlock only had to repeat the circuit two more times before John went rigid, his head thrown back and a loud cry left his mouth, Sherlocks hand filling up with warm come, pulse after pulse of it spilling over his curled fist.

After what seemed an age John flopped down onto his stomach, exhausted, the action pulling Sherlocks flaccid cock out of his arse. Both men hissed at the movement. Sherlock was aware of John murmuring something, but he didn’t hear what he was saying. He was too enraptured with the mess that was currently trickling out from between John’s arse cheeks.

Carefully, he lowered his hand, the one that was cupping an abnormally large amount of John’s semen, down to the trickle of his own semen and he ran his finger through it. The come that was in his hand slowly dripped down to join what was already on John’s thigh and Sherlock had the sudden urge to push both lots back into John. So that’s exactly what he did, musing at the fact that now both of their DNA was mixed up inside of John Watson. His body would absorb it and there would be a weird John/Sherlock strand floating around in his system. This thought, although completely ridiculous, filled Sherlock with a warm sort of feeling, as did the small moan that John gave as Sherlocks finger pushed their mingled seed back inside of him. Sherlock continued to keep trying to keep it all inside of John until John started protesting, claiming oversensitivity, so Sherlock laid down and situated himself next to John on the bed, throwing an arm over his back and a leg over the back of his knees and pulled the smaller man as close to him as he could possibly get.

“Alright?” he asked, rubbing his nose just behind John’s ear.

“Mmm. Fantastic” John replied sleepily. “You?”

“Also fantastic” Sherlock replied and John grinned a small grin.

Sherlock didn’t say anything else, just rested his face next to Johns and watched the other man trying not to fall asleep. They could have been doing this months ago. They had missed out on so much. On the other hand, they now had a lot of lost time to make up for.

This brought Sherlocks attention to other thoughts. Eventually he spoke.

“You have a lot of making up to do, John Watson.”

John cracked an eye open and sort of frowned at Sherlock. “Hmm, how do you make that?”

Sherlock made a quick calculation in his head and then answered. “We have been in a relationship for approximately eleven months and in that time you have had four ‘ _regular_ ’ girlfriends and at least 12 one night stands. From what society poses as the norm, that is not appropriate behaviour.”

John closed his eye, but the pseudo frown stayed.“When do we ever follow the norm?”

Sherlock had to concede. Nothing they ever did could be considered normal, but still... “True, but I would just like to stipulate that I _don’t_ share, John. I never have. No more girlfriends. Just me.”

At this John smiled, although his eyes still didn’t open. He just wiggled his body closer to Sherlocks and brought his arm up so he could drape it over the younger mans waist. “ _Always_ Sherlock. _Only you_ , forever.”

That answer pleased Sherlock to no end, and he furrowed his face closer to Johns. “But you still owe me.”

A small, half hearted laugh puffed out between John’s lips. “I promise, as soon as I am not so…. _lathargic_ , I will make it up to you as much as you like, any way you like.”

“Any way?” Sherlock beamed, although he suspected that, at the moment, John would agree to allowing Sherlock perform a frontal lobe lobotomy on him, not that Sherlock would ever want to do that as that would change John’s personality and that was never an option.

“Hmmm” John replied sleepily. “Anything you want.”

Sherlock reached down to grab his pants off of the floor and rooted around until he found his phone. He opened up the voice memo app and hit record. “Do you, John Watson, honestly promise to make it up to me as much as I like and in any way I chose?”

“Hmm” John replied, still not opening his eyes.

“You need to say _Yes, I do_ ” Sherlock whispered close to his ear.

John replied with a sleepy, “Yes, Sherlock, I promise.” Close enough.

With a grin, Sherlock shut off the recording, placed his phone back in his pants pockets and snuggled down next to the now quietly snoring John, wrapping himself back around his body and placing his chin on top of Johns head, drifting off to sleep with a head full of thoughts about what he could get John Watson to do.

**Author's Note:**

> *I don't know if Detectives only work in one specific division (homicide, missing persons, arson etc,) but it makes sense to me, so this is how I have worked it for this fic.


End file.
